C’mon, Xander, you had so much to say!
Remember when you were all proud of yourself, just a few hours after Refueled went off the air? When you hit “submit” and shot that load of grey, weak, jelly-like splooge right into the fine hairs of your belly button and turned off your computer, content in the knowledge that you’d really “stuck it to the Son of God”? I answered you back with morning breath, Azula– it took me less than fifteen minutes to respond, so where the fuck are you? Aren’t you gonna hit me with the BANHAMMER? Aren’t I in your sights? It’s been almost twelve hours, dipshit– why haven’t you BLESSED us with your second fucking promo?
Or maybe that was the best you had.
Maybe from the second you eked out a win against Harrison, you’ve been planning that little atomic bomb, and didn’t realize it was a wet fart. Maybe you’ve read my promo a hundred times in the last twelve hours, and you’re coming up emptier than the threats you made against me. Yeah, moron, you gotta do that four more times. Diminishing returns is a bitch– a lot of guys come out of the gate swinging, but their arms are tired by the time they realize they’ve been whiffing their punches. But you?
You didn’t even start strong.
Nah, you tried to call me a tourist in my own division. Hot take. Smart direction. Is that what you were clunkily trying to set up in your first one, big guy? The division that launched my entire career? The one I’ve been begging like Keith Sweat to bring back for literally years? This isn’t my retirement plan, dipshit, it’s your funeral arrangement. I’m so fucking good at this that Lee Best has literally been conscripting opponents for me– no one is signing up for free title shots, so Lee just keeps God booking me whoever is on the paddlin’ list this week.
So that’s the route you’re taking?
That this is a voluntary demotion?
Fuck you, Xandouche Canoela. You’re talking shit like someone I should be wary of, but “fear of the unknown” isn’t the same as being “afraid of a nobody”. You’ve been in HOW for nine seconds– if I farted when you got here, you wouldn’t even smell it yet. I’m literally sitting here F5ing my phone, praying that you make this entire promo obsolete by posting literally anything. Alas, this is the way of Xandrogyny Spatula… come in with a bunch of hype and disappoint at literally the first sign of resistance.
Jesus, this is gonna be embarrassing for you, man.
How about I help you out? That feels nice and condescending. Let me give you some ideas. Ditch the research time, quit getting cute, and tell me why you’re gonna beat me. Tell me what kind of an edge you have against me, one on one, on a mic or inside of a cage. Tell me literally anything you’ve ever done that would imply that anyone should mistakenly think you’re going to become the HOFC Champion on Saturday. And since you couldn’t do that with three promos last time, and this time it’s FIVE, I’ll even start you out:
You’re so milquetoast bland that I don’t have any Xander specific material to lean on. Address that! You’ve done so little in HOW that I can barely pick apart your exaggerated record. Eviscerate me for it! I have unlimited HOFC hubris because I’m never in any danger of losing one of these matches and it’s never even that close. Pick that apart! Make fun of my stupid clothes. Make fun of my ridiculous haircuts and constant need for attention. Criticize me for making sure Gino had a new ad banner, but you don’t even have a headshot yet— if I get bored and snap your neck like a glow stick on Saturday, your obituary photo is going to be Dan Ryan with a grey color overlay.
These are just a few ideas.
Just smash your face into your keyboard until words come out, Abooboola. I don’t even care what the words say. They can be in Chinese. They can be a recipe for key lime pie. It can just be my shoot name 37.5 times. I promise you it’s a formality. I promise you it doesn’t matter. Cause this “side hustle” I’m on? I’m the fucking best in the world at it.
You’re not even the best I’ve beaten.